


Afghanistan or Iraq?

by the_hopeless_existentialist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson in Afghanistan, M/M, PTSD John, Poor John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_hopeless_existentialist/pseuds/the_hopeless_existentialist
Summary: John returns from Afghanistan broken and traumatised and Sherlock is struggling against his boredom and addiction. The pair meet in unlikely circumstances.





	Afghanistan or Iraq?

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a response to @hiatustory 's April prompt: Alternative First Meeting.

Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted; the heavy relentless drum of machine gun fire, the sharp shattering of glass, the ting-ting-ting of bullets pounding into metal and then the thunderous reverberations of an explosion. John Watson dove behind a low wall, pressing himself flat against the scorching brickwork as his heart threatened to breach his rib cage. Bullets pebbled the ground around him, throwing up clouds of dust. He pulled his gun to readiness, trying to steady his breathing even as the adrenaline burned through his veins drawing him to action. He glanced around himself evaluating the situation, swift and calculating, looking for his men who had scattered at the assault. It was clear that the field hospital was being targeted. He swore vehemently under his breath; the hospital was open and largely undefended where men had poured out to assist in unloading as the supply convoy had pulled up, only a few moments ago. A flash of movement some way in front of him suddenly caught his eye, a blur of foreign material, and John raised his gun and pulled the trigger. And the bullet hurtled towards it destination, destruction spattering in its wake. He barked an order to his men and then the air became dense with smoke and dust, cracking and hissing around them.

He couldn’t see anything. He needed to move, needed a better vantage point. How many men were they against? John didn’t know, but it was clear that they were outnumbered. This wasn’t a random attack, this had been planned, he realised. John took his chance when it came, sprinting across the open ground, gun gripped tight in white fingers, feet slamming into the dirt.  Time seemed to disintegrate in the chaos. Fragments of eerie calm were punctuated by the sharp crack of gunfire and the shouts and screams of men, wrenched from reluctant throats, crashed and collided mid-air. John’s gun vibrated in his hands. Another explosion sounded its victory, and another and another. He glanced behind him. The hospital was now on fire, the flames devouring and hungry. John froze; his stomach lurched sickeningly, threatening to revolt, but only for a moment before being replaced by a white hot, searing anger. That was when it happened. He stumbled back as pressure exploded across his chest and shoulder. His hand flew up instinctively and he startled at the wetness he found there, staring stupidly at the redness on his fingertips. Then his vision whited out as pain ignited within him, every nerve straining and screaming against the intrusion. He shouted out, pressing his hand to the wound as it burned, radiating out. He blinked quickly, swallowing down the nausea, scrabbling to re-establish the mask of calm that the bullet had knocked loose. Breathe! He had to breathe. And keep going. He needed to keep going, keep fighting.

Something had shifted. It felt off; the frantic shouting in Pashto and then the rumbling of engines, it felt wrong, strangely quiet, unsettling. Then the world was torn apart, the missile blast throwing John violently to the ground. He yelled out his pain at the impact. Rubble flying through the air as acrid black smoke curled upwards. He slowly blinked himself back to consciousness. His head was reeling and this time he was unable to force down the nausea, he rolled over heaving, his stomach emptying itself of its contents. The metallic tang of blood was thick and cloying, he could taste it in the air, staining his tongue as he breathed. He lay for a second; panting desperately into the dust, until his stomach settled and he stopped shaking. He could hear his name being called out, bitten off in gasps of pain. He pulled himself to his feet, reeling as the world spun around him. Again, his name was shouted out edged with desperation. John froze, suddenly feeling very heavy. Will! He staggered after the voice, answering the calls with his own, until he collapsed to the ground at his friend’s side. Oh god oh god! He looked him over, trying not to panic and failing, scrabbling for something to do that would fix him even as the doctor in him recognised the futility. His right leg has been a victim of the blast, leaving behind a bloodied maw of torn flesh. His chest and abdomen were riddled with bullets.

“Fields, stay with me. Can you hear me? Will? Will, speak to me” John gushed through gritted teeth.

“Watson.” Fields replied, weakly. His eyelids fluttering as he turned his head slightly drawing John into his line of sight. His chest rattling alarmingly

“No, keep still. Don’t move, I need to get a look at you” John muttered speaking more to himself than to the man, whose life he held in his hands.

“John, please-- I don’t want to die. Please-- please don’t leave me” his voice cracked and broke and a tear escaped and ran down his cheek. John finally looked to the man’s face and when he did, he could feel himself cracking and breaking into pieces.

“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll stay here with you. Of course I will, you’re my best mate.” John reached down and took the man’s hand in his own, offering what comfort he could, speaking softly until he felt the man go limp and silent below him, his body emptying his soul to the heavens.

John swallowed thickly, wresting himself to his feet. He needed to stay focused. He moved from person to person, checking for a pulse, for heaving breaths, for something he could save, for anything he could save. Anything! He stopped and looked around at the carnage scattered around him; the blood drenched soil, the tangle of bodies, the fire reaching to consume the sky. He had not saved anybody. And he was still here to bear witness to that. He looked to the sky and screamed. He screamed out his fear and pain and sadness and guilt and when he was done he fell to his knees empty and broken.

 

 ********************

 

Sherlock fidgeted restlessly, his mind was whirring, on the edge of unravelling. His senses were fraught and overloaded. The mindless chatter amongst the sounds of work and the flashing of the police lights; he was finding it oppressive, bearing down on him. He was drawn back to the present moment at the sound of his name and realised that Lestrade had been talking to him, well berating him judging by his expression.

 “Sherlock!” Lestrade was glaring at him in exasperation. “Are you even listening to me? This isn’t up for negotiation.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please,” He muttered, his voice dripping disdain “This case was so mind-numbingly mundane, did I really need to be here for that?”  He threw his hand up, gesturing at the crime scene behind them. “Do you need me to do everything for you?” he scathed. He needed to get out of here. He was feeling suffocated, closed in.

“Grow up, Sherlock. You know, we’re doing you a favour letting you come down and give a hand but you have to do the paperwork--

“ _You_ are doing _me_ a favour?” Sherlock scoffed, as he pulled his gloves out of his pocket, turning away from Lestrade as he slipped them on, his fingers twitching for something to do.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned.

“Good day, Lestrade.” Sherlock said as he began to stalk away.

“Sherlock--” Lestrade looked as if he was going to follow before his radio crackled to life at his shoulder “Dammit!” he swore at Sherlock’s retreating back “Yeah, I’m here. Go ahead, Dimmock.”

A few moments later Sherlock heard Lestrade’s footsteps slamming into the pavement behind him as he ran to catch him up. “Sherlock wait.” His voice came from a few feet away, slightly breathless. “Something else has come up. Dimmock wasn’t especially forthcoming over the radio but some sort of armed hostage situation. They haven’t been able to engage the perpetrator at all. Your insight, you know, your deductions, they could be helpful.”

Sherlock considered for a moment. He was overwhelmed but desperate for stimulation. He was going out of his mind with the boredom. He’d had been pacing his flat, pulling at his hair, trying to resist the temptation. It was like his brain was itchy on the inside and he was struggling to scratch at it. He recognised the warning signs and it scared him. After what had happened the last time-- no he couldn’t do that again.  To be honest, he thought, that was probably one of the reasons Lestrade had insisted on involving his in this recent case, it was only a 3 or a 4 at best, he barely had to glance at the crime scene to read the answers that were written there, but it had got him out of the flat and it had been distracting even if only for a moment. He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine, I’ll come” he snapped, but without much of its usual bite. He hoped Lestrade hadn’t noticed.

The Detective Inspector looked relieved. “Alright, let’s go.”

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the café, part of the street had been cordoned off, and there was already one other police car present. Sergeant Dimmock was talking into his radio looking flustered. Sherlock swung open the car door before Lestrade could even pull to a complete stop and slam on the handbrake. Dimmock spotted them and waved them over, a small humourless smile across his lips.

“What’s the situation?” Lestrade said, tipping his head towards the café. Dimmock’s retelling of events was quick and perfunctory, without embellishment.

“A man, mid-thirties entered about 12. Then out of nowhere, he started shouting and pulled a gun. There are civilians in there with him, we don’t know for sure how many, maybe twelve, fifteen? He’s in between them and the exit. We’ve been reluctant to approach, without backup, we didn’t want to provoke him, no shots have been fired, but we haven’t been able to engage with him at all.”

“Any witnesses?” Lestrade asked.

“Yeah, a couple managed to get out in the midst of all the chaos. They were the ones who called it in, actually. Wilson is interviewing them now. But we also have this.” Dimmock motioned to a laptop that was perched precariously atop his police car. A scratchy black and white picture filled the screen. “We managed to access the CCTV feed, to get a closer look at what was going on.”  He ushered them closer and pressed play, urging the flickering picture on screen into motion. Sherlock watched silently, his mind observing, eliminating and deducing.

“Wilson, thinks he might be having some sort of psychotic episode, he doesn’t seem to be aware of much going on around him. It fits with what the couple has told us as well.” Dimmock offered.

 “It’s not psychosis. He’s got post-traumatic stress disorder.” Sherlock interrupted. “Look, at the way he holds himself while he’s waiting in the queue.” Sherlock pushes past Dimmock, rewinding the video “his stance is that of a soldier. And look there, he has a cane and a limp on his right side. He was injured then, but the way he stands there, the way he holds himself, it’s like he’s forgotten about it, so maybe it’s psychosomatic. The real injury, I suspect, is in his shoulder, if you look at how stiffly he moves. Psychosomatic limp? The circumstances of the injury had to have been traumatic and look here --” he flicks the video forward a few frames “just before he reacts, the women here drops a tray of glasses. The shattering must have been what triggered him.” Both Dimmock and Lestrade looked impressed.

“You got all that from three minutes of video?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock didn’t answer. He was still looking at the CCTV footage.

“We need to send someone in. We can figure out what to do with him afterwards but we need to get the other people out. If he’s a soldier like Sherlock said, maybe someone in uniform isn’t the best idea.” Lestrade looked thoughtful for a moment before turning to consult Sherlock, or rather the space Sherlock had been occupying. He looked around and his stomach sank as he saw Sherlock disappearing inside the café.

“Sir?” Dimmock looked alarmed “Should we go in after him?”

“No” Lestrade decided “We don’t want to overwhelm the poor guy. I think we are going to have to trust Sherlock on this one. But I swear I’m going to kill him later.”

 

 ******************** 

 

The atmosphere inside the café was quiet but fraught with nervous energy that seemed to roil off of every surface and there was broken glass that crunched underfoot as Sherlock stepped carefully inside. His focus was entirely drawn by the man who was cowering against the barister counter, his knees drawn up tight to his chest, his face pressed against them. His hands were clasped behind his head, gripping the gun tightly. His short dusky blond hair stuck up around his fingers. Sherlock could see that he was shaking. He was breathing heavily, his breaths harsh in the forced silence around them. He could see the tan lines about the man’s wrists, visible just above the cuff of his shirt. So, not home long then, hasn’t yet had a chance to adapt. He looked incredibly fragile, as if at any moment he could shatter, his pieces joining the shards of glass littering the floor. Sherlock himself was uncomfortably intimate with the feelings of desperation, of guilt, despair that were shrouding the man in front of him. It stirred feelings of tenderness, a wave of empathy closing over him taking him by surprise. A noise towards the back of the room broke his focus and his head snapped up, taking in the number of people hiding behind tables at the back of the room. He brought a finger to his lips, motioning them to stay silent before returning his gaze to the man in front of him.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said, his voice seeming way too loud. The man startled suddenly, his head whipping up, catching Sherlock in a piercing gaze. His grip on the gun had tightened also imperceptibly as he drew it to his hip, but he didn’t raise it.

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeated, lowering his voice a little bit.

“Er Afghanistan-- um-- who are-- what’s happening?” he stuttered, glancing around himself quickly before returning his iron gaze back to Sherlock.

“It’s okay. Do you know where you are?” Sherlock murmured softly, taking a small step forward.

“No!” he shouted, levelling his weapon at Sherlock “Don’t come any closer! I will shoot you” his voice broke on the last word. Sherlock put his hands up and shuffled back a little. He thought for a moment before slowly and deliberately lowering himself down to his knees, his Belstaff spilling onto the ground around him.

“It’s ok. We’re in London. You’re safe.” The man looked at him suspiciously.

“I’m not armed” Sherlock reassured “you can check if you want” the man stared at him for a moment before nodding, a single sharp jerk of his head. Sherlock stayed still as the man unfurled in front of him, shuffling forward until he was level with Sherlock and then patted him down roughly, moving his coat out of the way as he ran his hands over him, feeling for a concealed weapon. Satisfied, he sat back down on his heels. He didn’t look any more at ease though.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock prompted, gently.

“It’s Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers” his tone sure and steady for the first time. And then he faltered again. “Where are we? What’s happening?”

“We’re in London, in a coffee shop. We’re safe.” Sherlock repeated, holding John’s gaze. John nodded slowly.

“Oh god,” said John suddenly “Oh, god, what have I done?” He looked down at the gun in his hand and paled. “I thought-- I was--” he fumbled for the right words “Did I hurt anybody? I didn’t know--” he sounded distraught. Sherlock smiled at him warmly, hoping that it was reassuring.

“No, no you didn’t but I should probably take this.” Sherlock offered his hand for the gun. John thrust it into his palm quickly. Sherlock clicked on the safety and dropped it into his pocket. As soon as the gun had been put away, he glanced over again at the coffee shop staff and customers. He motioned them forward, again indicating that they should be quiet as they left. John didn’t even look up. He was knelt down, his head resting in his hands. Sherlock reached for a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap and handed it to John, “here, drink this.” John took it and swallowed half the bottle down before speaking again.

“Jeez, I’m sorry” John muttered despondently. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong. Were you having a flashback?” Sherlock ventured. John seemed to be more aware of what was going on around him. He had stopped shaking, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. He looked sad as he answered.

“I think so. One minute I was waiting for my coffee, the next I was back… there.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to talk about it. How are you feeling now?”

“A little bit stupid to be honest. And guilty. I didn’t mean to scare those people. Am I in trouble?” he hesitated “You don’t look like the police” 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at that. “No, you’re right. I’m not. I’m a consulting detective.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“That’s because I invented the job.” Sherlock’s smile widened as John appraised him curiously.

John looked out the window anxiously. “God, what’s going to happen now?”

“I’ll deal with the police. Have you got anybody to call? A friend, a relative? I don’t want to leave you alone right now.”

John’s shoulders visibly slumped “No. I-- I haven’t got myself sorted yet. There isn’t really anybody. I’ll be fine-- I guess”

Sherlock regarded him for a moment. He stood up and offered his hand to John, who took it carefully and pulled himself to standing, next to Sherlock.

“I only live ten minutes away, come back with me. It’ll be nice and quiet and my landlady makes the best cup of tea.” Sherlock froze. That’s not what he had meant to say at all. “I mean-- if-- you don’t have to. You probably just want to go home. Sorry--” Sherlock sputtered, feeling embarrassed. What was he thinking?

“No, that would be nice. I don’t have many friends and you-- you seem nice.” John smiled up at him. “I’m just sorry I had to meet you like this.”

Sherlock smiled widely. “Come on then, let’s go.”

Lestrade pounced on him as soon as he reappeared, pulling him to the side “Never do that again! I mean thank god nothing went wrong but you couldn’t possibly have known that.” Lestrade looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to where John was standing “We should probably take him in, get a statement, make sure he’s ok.”

“No.” Sherlock said softly.

Lestrade stared at him “No, you’re not doing this again. I can’t keep making excuses for you!”

“Lestrade” Sherlock hissed, keeping his voice low “I will come round tomorrow morning first thing and I will do anything you ask of me. But right now, can you let us go?”

Lestrade stared at him for a moment longer, perhaps sensing the quiet desperation in Sherlock’s eyes. He glanced again at John, then back at Sherlock. He nodded quickly.

“Okay, but this is the last time, Sherlock. From now on it has to be by the book.”

Sherlock offered a small smile before turning back to John. They walked in silence until they turned onto a busy street where Sherlock managed to flag down a cab in record time. He opened the door and swung himself inside, gesturing for John to follow. John hesitated for a moment.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, leaning over from inside the taxi.

“I don’t know” John replied “This is crazy. I don’t even know you’re name. I don’t know why I trust you, I never trust anybody.”

Sherlock smiled up at him “The name is Sherlock Holmes.” He turned to the cab driver “and the address, 221B Baker street”

He looked back up at John, “Are you coming?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Pashto = The language that that is most likely to be spoken in and around Kandahar, Afghanistan - which was one of the places John Watson was stationed during his service. This is where the beginning of the story is set. 
> 
>    
>    
> This was genuinely supposed to be a short, one-shot sort of thing, but it started running away with me as I was writing it. So, I am planning on writing something a bit longer at some point in the future, based on what I've written here so I apologise if it seems a bit unfinished... maybe, see this as a sort of preview of the future fic that I am definitely going to write? 
> 
> Anyway, kudos and comments are always appreciated. Let me know if you liked it and if not, let me know why. I am still learning!


End file.
